


On Days Like This

by wirewrappedlily



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Author is a madwoman, Because of course he does, James gets into trouble, M/M, Post-SPECTRE, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sassy Q, Slow Build, before they break it more in whatever Shatterhand is going to do?, fix-it?, kind of a five + one?, like VERY sassy Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 12:30:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18194612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirewrappedlily/pseuds/wirewrappedlily
Summary: “If I promise to make no unwelcomed housecalls, would that ease your mind at all?”Q was too tired to catch the slant of implication in that phrasing, but he knew there was something for him to still be objecting to. “What are you doing back here, anyway? Didn’t you quit? We had another 007, she lasted a month.”“I did resign, but I did tell you before I left that I’d be back.”“You…yeah, but you didn’t come back!”





	On Days Like This

Morning light slanted into the bunker as if it were any other day; as if the world hadn't been perilously close to ending just the night before. 

The injuries sustained from his fling with fieldwork itched terribly for some reason, and though the Quartermaster for MI6 was normally very good at ignoring his physical body, as soon as he caught sight of James fucking Bond in his territory the urge to scratch at those itches became maddening. 

Bond was there for a car to drive off into the sunset with the lovely Dr. Swann; of course the bastard was. Q couldn't even pretend at surprise for this--just as he hadn't been able to pretend at surprise when he'd found the DB10 stolen. Bond was known to be completely an arsehole: there was very little the man could do to antagonize Q that Q hadn't already foreseen and readied himself to suffer through. 

But it was a new agony to watch the car he'd so carefully built back from scratch be driven off, never to be seen again. It was a new torture to know that James Bond would be out in the world somewhere, happy. Q had expected to have to mourn the man he'd carried a torch for; he had not expected to lose him to a beautiful blonde. 

Q was wry in his defeat; he ought to have known that this would be how things would end up for his little fantasy. Bond barely deigned to look at him; he knew that it would not be him that would take that sunset drive with the man, that much had always been perfectly clear. Q could not begrudge Bond or Swann for running away with their happiness--but a part of him he'd rather not give evidence to whispered the hope that happiness was what they were running away with. Not a worthy thought, Q admonished himself, but one that he couldn't help having.

Rather than watching the depart, Q turned to his desk and all the work he had to slog through before he'd be able to see his much-missed bed again. 

The pain was sudden and breath-taking, but it wasn't unfamiliar. The symptoms of an anxiety attack weren't rare for him, after all--though it had been a while since he'd had one. The truly mortifying thing, however, was that he was not as alone as he’d thought. Strong hands gripped his upper arms and levered him back into his chair, and then bloody Bond was crouching before him, gaze steady as he spoke words Q couldn’t make out over the ringing in his ears. Q bent forward, head between his knees, and he was actually rather grateful the ex-agent had gotten him sitting down before he’d fallen; this was a bad one. James didn’t move to touch him again, not until Q could finally hear what James was saying—that he was asking permission to touch Q, and Q nodded his assent. 

“Breathe in with me for a count of four, hold for a count of seven, and out for a count of eight, Q.” James murmured as he fit a large hand over the back of Q’s neck, the pressure of his fingertips on the unbearably tense muscles there a balm. 

Q managed to clear his throat weakly when the pain in his chest had dulled to a stabbing ache, and he managed not to make a sound as James’s hand left the back of his neck, but couldn’t help the huff of thankful laughter as his tea was brought to him in steady hands. Taking a long swallow, Q sat up, blinking the slight stars from his vision and sniffing slightly as the cold set in from the rush of heat that always engulfed him during an attack. “Forgive me—“ 

James cut him off with a loaded look, “Nothing to forgive.” He replied. 

Q licked his lips, feeling even more drained than he already had been, and all he wanted—what he _ached_ for—was his bed and a good nine years to sleep off the mess of his life. Q glanced at the time in the bottom corner of his screen; it had been a bad attack, but it had been a short one, and Q had that small consolation to be thankful for, “You shouldn’t leave Dr. Swann waiting, Bond. You have better things to do than calm a boffin turmoil.” 

James’s eyes tightened, “Once Dr. Swann is secure, Q, I will be coming back,” he murmured, so low that even Q’s bugs would have a hard time listening in, “and I would appreciate it if my favourite boffin told me more about this turmoil when I come home to him.” 

Q’s breath caught, his cheeks going red. James stared into his eyes for a beat longer before he rose, movements sinuous, and crossed to the waiting car. Q bit his lip, not wanting to contemplate any of it as he turned back to the mess his favourite agent had left him. 

~

It was obvious to anyone with eyes, whether those eyes worked or not, that Q was exhausted beyond all measure. It had been nearly four months since the heads of Spectre had been summarily cut off, and Q had been running himself nearly bloody to salt and burn every single tentacle of the damned beast. 

The new 007 had only lasted three missions before she'd blown up a building and misjudged the timing of getting outside of it. The loss of the agent had sent Q reeling even further, to the point where even Moneypenny wasn't willing to face him, but Q wasn't about to let anything like Blofeld take the reigns of the headless monster: it was his intent to slay the monster permanently. 

Unfortunately for Q, he'd given Holly Gardot, his indominable R, the permission to lock him out of his own system...so long as he couldn't hack his own way back in. "You have been here for nearly 72 hours, cutie pie. Of that, you've slept maybe six." The thick American-South accent rolled off of Holly's tongue with a honeyed charm that lulled most of her coworkers into thinking she was some hick that couldn't code her way through Hello World. She contended that that only made her more fearsome. Q knew better than to disagree. Blonde, curvaceous, and stunning, Q was not surprised by the running bet as to when--not if--an agent would get their ass handed to them for trying to flirt with her a little too intently. 

"I'm almost in!" Q protested, practically growling, and Holly just scoffed, rolling pretty grey eyes at him before she stepped up to his side and gently hip-checked him away from the keyboard. 

"You've been trying for twenty minutes on what would take you twenty seconds to get through normally, babe. Go home." Pivoting slightly on one stylish heel, Holly seemed to already know who had just walked into the Branch, "007? Take the Quartermaster home."  
�There was no officially designated 007, and Q startled, whirling around to find himself being eyed by none other than James fucking Bond. "Happily, R." 

"I'll text you the address." Holly began shooing Q along from his own Branch, and Q knew he need to be both mortified and deeply professional here. 

"Stop swatting me," Q snapped from the corner of his mouth, and Holly cocked a hip, one eyebrow raising as she pointed for the door. 

"Get out of my Branch and don't let me catch you back in here for at least 48 hours...sir." The last was smirked, and if Q was any less than halfway terrified of her, he’d have been livid. 

“Thank you, Bond, but I don’t—“ Q began, only for James to be plucking his bag from his hands, looking calculatedly blank. 

“With all due respect to your wishes, Quartermaster: too bad. You don’t look like you would survive the tube, and I’ll be damned before handing you to a cab and risking a security breach.” 

“As if you knowing where I live is any less of a security breach.” Q scoffed, walking in the general direction of the lifts out of Q-Branch’s underground warren. 

“If I promise to make no unwelcomed housecalls, would that ease your mind at all?” 

Q was too tired to catch the slant of implication in that phrasing, but he knew there was something for him to still be objecting to. “What are you doing back here, anyway? Didn’t you quit? We had another 007, she lasted a month.” 

“I did resign, but I did tell you before I left that I’d be back.” 

“You…yeah, but you didn’t come back!” 

James regarded him over the roof of the car he’d be driving Q home in— _not_ Q’s masterpiece, but another, un-modded sports car. “Will you be likely to remember any of this conversation when you’re properly awake?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Q groaned. He let himself slump into the passenger’s seat of the car, but he’d be damned if he admitted he was pouting. “But, seriously? Why aren’t you riding off into the sunset? Doctor Swann was lovely.” 

“She was lovely, but I find myself in a position where someone I find more lovely has managed to also capture my heart, so I’m afraid Doctor Swann will be riding off without me.” 

“Please tell me you didn’t just _give her that car_ , Bond.” 

“The car is in a parking space at my flat.” 

“D’you seriously have two bloody parking spaces in _London_?” Q asked disbelievingly. 

The corner of James’s mouth was twitching, “Yes, Q. One for my everyday car, one for your work of art.” 

Q squinted at him, frown lines running deep, “And Moneypants accuses _me_ of frivolous investments.” Q rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he began to bask in the bucket seat. 

“Oh? What does my favourite boffin invest in?” 

“Property, mostly—for humans, not for cars.” 

“A good investment—“ 

“Her objection is mainly that I keep five flats for myself, and never tell anyone which one I actually live in.” Q explained, and the looking of sudden interest that stole over James’s features was enough to make Q want to smile. “All of them have my spec for security measures—all of them I use, from time to time…” 

James hummed, eyes narrowing, “But none you live in.” 

“What?” 

“You don’t live in any of them regularly.” James murmured, as if it were a certainty. "You use all of them as decoys, and none of them as homes. The only question that remains is do you have a true home, or do you not bother?" 

Q was just fuzzy enough to want to play along, "What is your assessment?" 

"You dress as though you have six cats and would happily be someone's adoptive uncle...but you are certainly dangerous, and used to transience, so I don't think a cozy cottage is quite what would best-suit. ...You have a home, but not one like any most people would assume you would own." 

Q hummed softly, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head in observance of James next to him, “So you think I live in a trailer?” 

James snorted, “God no, but I think you live somewhere no one would think either the darling boffin or fearsome Quartermaster would live.” 

“‘Darling boffin’?” Q scoffed. “The only one allowed to think of me that way is R…and maybe Moneypenny.” 

"Tanner wants to feed you; Mallory wants to keep you wrapped in cotton wool--" 

"Neither of them seemed to mind my getting shot at when we were taking down Denbigh and Nine Eyes." 

James flinched, looking over at Q in surprise. "Were you injured?" 

"Not seriously..." Q muttered slightly grudgingly, taking a deep breath and shifting on the bucket seat to lay his head against the window and close his eyes. 

The leather of the steering wheel creaked under James's grip, but Q didn't bother to open his eyes. "I'm sorry that that...that morning, I didn't see it." 

"I wasn't badly injured," Q insisted, already sounding half-asleep. 

"I'd hate to have to carry you into your own apartment, Quartermaster. Stay awake." 

"I'd express my doubt that you could carry me, but you'd just take it as a challenge." Q grumbled. 

“You'd better stay awake, then, Q." James chuckled, his deep voice rich with his amusement, and Q caught himself quite liking that sound. 

"Do you ever get tired...not bothering to have a home?" Q asked hazily after a long moment of comfortable silence. 

"It's not worth it...after the first two times I've been declared dead..." James gave an eloquent shrug, and Q frowned at that. 

"Well, then, Bond: I think I will issue you a challenge. If you can find my five apartments, I'll let you pick one. You deserve to have somewhere that's at least _safe_." 

James's silence turned speculative, "Are you giving me a headstart in my taking you to one of them now, or will I be expected to find the real home you don't tell anyone you have, as well?" 

"If you can find my home, Bond, I'll have to come up with another treat altogether. Exploding pen, perhaps?" 

"Mmm, I'd much prefer another watch, actually, Q; far less chance of an accidental detonation. But that reminds me: that was a bit of brilliance I still need to properly thank you for." James rumbled, pulling into a parking space in front of one of the buildings Q owned. 

"And _what_ would constitute proper thanks in your world, Bond?" 

"Dinner." James's tone changed slightly, his voice gaining a certain husk to it, and Q's attention snapped on him as if he'd been shot with adrenalin. 

"You..." Q snapped his mouth closed, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he analyzed for all of a second, "Very well. You can bring me the best Italian takeaway you know of, in Q-Branch, tomorrow night." Q reached for the doorhandle, only to find his other hand caught. 

"If I can find your home, would you let me take you to dinner?" James asked wonderingly, and Q was muddled enough not to be able to place the rumble of James's voice. 

"Why on earth would you want to take me to dinner, Bond?" 

"Why on earth wouldn't I want to take you to dinner, Q?"

Q blinked at James hazily, his eyes burning beneath his specs, and he tried, but failed to pick up a thread of the list running through his head to then relay that list to the damnably annoying agent—ex-agent. "I'm too tired to deal with this right now." 

James slid from the car before Q could protest, circling around to open Q's door for him and collecting the bag he'd stored in the boot. With a careful sweep of his ice-blue eyes, James took in all angle of threat and potential for danger. Q had chosen this address to give to Holly and Moneypenny because the neighbourhood was just as safe as the building itself: there was very little chance of either being accosted, and the quiet street afforded Q's ex-military tenant in the building to keep an obsessively watchful eye, ready at every moment to intercede. 

Q unlocked the gate around the courtyard with a deceptively simple key: the micro-circuitry in the key disengaging the electronic lock along with the normal lock. Q had gotten a kick out of changing the lock on his desk drawer to a more minor version of this one: the electric shock it sent through anyone trying to pick it had produced some delightfully funny CCTV footage of agents trying to break into his tea stash. With no small amount of anticipation, Q wondered if James would be so unwise as to try to pick his locks. "You really needn't walk me up." Q protested mildly, and was unsurprised to find himself summarily ignored. 

"This is a lovely building." James murmured, taking in the exposed brick and reclaimed wood. James stopped before the antique lift, a haunted look passing through his eyes just long enough for Q to divert himself towards the stairs, not sure why he was doing it, but doing it for James's sake nonetheless. 

James followed him on quiet steps up the stairs, his gaze taking in the more obvious security measures Q had littered here and there to throw off from the real ones. Q wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased that James was apparently missing those. "Is there a particular reason you've chosen to make me your pet-project, Bond?" 

James's gaze turned to him, and it was loathsome that he knew the _feel_ of the man's gaze. Silence stretched for long enough that Q knew James was fighting with himself whether to tell Q the truth or to deflect something he was uncomfortable with, and Q came up with a complete blank in trying to account for just _why_ James would be uncomfortable. "You seem like you could use someone to lean on, Quartermaster. I'd like it if I could offer myself for your support." 

Q narrowed his eyes at the heavy metal door before him as he unlocked it, back firmly to James to hide his expression. "I never took you to be a steadying influence." Q muttered as he pushed into his flat, the security system shutting off at a wave of Q's hand towards the console; biometrics able to pick up his voice and handprint just from that gesture. James lingered outside the door, though he let his eyes sweep over the rooms; the open floorplan truncated only by a privacy screen at the end of the bed. The dark wood and brick was left as it was, but the outer wall was very nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. James looked somewhat shocked at the space: the tapestry hanging, lush with colour, against the wall next to the door; the silk draperies on the four-poster bed neatly tied back in cascades of rich shades of blue.

"Do you not feel on-display with all these windows?" James questioned innocently as Q took off his sports jacket and tugged irritably at his tie, hoping to undo rather than tighten it. 

"They're privacy glass. My own design. Someone trying to get so much as a heat signature in this flat is going to run into problems unlike any they've ever seen before." Q turned back to the loitering agent, and his mouth moved before his brain could, "Come in." 

James shifted into the room as if ghostly, his movements measured and careful as if he wanted to leave no trace. "This is a lovely space...but I can't imagine you for very long in it, privacy glass or no." 

Smiling to himself as he toed off his shoes and undid his cuffs, Q hummed leadingly, keeping his face turned away from James to hide his expression. "I'd ask if this would be on your list of contenders, but you've yet to see the other four flats to garner an opinion." 

Trailing towards the windows, James folded his hands together, stance solid and thoughtful. "Contrary to the popular opinion, I'm not much for exhibitionism, even with all the assurances in the world." 

"Hm," Q mused, touching the security console and triggering the black-out of his windows all at once, the lights slowly raising from the gentle glow of Edison bulbs to a near-day brightness. James had managed not to flinch away from the wall, but he had the hint of a smile as he turned to Q. "My office was made of the same glass." 

"What happened to that office?" 

"Denbigh. I knew something was...off. As soon as he got access, I had Mallory move my team and I." Q hoped, in an abstract way, that he didn't still sound bitter. 

"Oh?" 

"Denbigh rubbed me the wrong way...he was too polished to be sane. So I expressed a concern to Mallory that he needn't get near the real Q-Branch, and only a fake on superficial terms, if we were to be out of a job." Q pulled down two wineglasses without asking, despite the fact that it was three in the afternoon. He figured that the fact he hadn't slept in a few days made up for the afternoon drinking. "Mallory listened to me, as much as he could. And thankfully, that kept your SmartBlood out of their hands." 

James lingered at one of the hewn-wood columns—the one with the trio of black and white photographs: the ruins of a castle, dust-covered and soot-smudged piano keys, and a man's back in shadow, smoke billowing from around him. "Do they tell a story?" 

"Of course." 

Turning to him, the question of whether Q would tell him that story was asked only in the slope of his brows, and Q's response was left to the smallest of twitches at the corner of his lips. 

"You drove me home, so I gave you one of the flats' locations. My magnanimity doesn't extend quite so far as to give you carte-blanche to what my secrets and stories are." 

"But your flats all hold a secret? A story?" 

"I may not live in them, Bond, but they are still mine." 

Q brought James his glass of wine, sipping his own with no small enjoyment. "I'm afraid I can't bring you takeaway in Q-Branch tomorrow, Q: You've been locked out for 48 hours, and although you are my usual bet, I find myself completely unable and unwilling to discount R's sheer bloody-mindedness." 

"So you do have some form of native intelligence...I won't go so far as to call it self-preservation instinct, however." 

James smirked over his shoulder at Q on the couch as he circled towards the bookcases filled with mementos from agents: 002's miniature of St. Basil's Cathedral, 009's gold-leaf buddha from Thailand, 001's llama toy from Peru... James seemed to be looking for something among the collection, but Q knew he wasn't going to find what he was looking for. The postcards James had taken to sending him were long-gone, as Q had thought James was. Q had gotten rid of all evidence of James from his life, lest it leave open the possibility of compromising his peace if Q were to be compromised. That was what Q had told himself, in any case. In truth, Q doubted himself enough to question if it wasn't due to his anger at James leaving that he'd gotten rid of the postcards. 

The photographs scattered throughout the collection of knick-knacks were carefully selected: 005's back to the camera as she placed incense in the Forbidden City; 006's face completely obscured by snowgoggles and the thickest, rattiest beard Q had ever seen on a Double-Oh, but his grin unobscured as he flashed the camera the bird from a hand freed from ludicrously huge mittens. Q particularly liked the shot of 004 mid-bungee jump in New Zealand, but pride of place was a picture of the late 007 after her first mission, smirking over her shoulder, her curtain of brown hair in lazy curls down her bared back as she showed off the jeweled butterfly the wine-coloured gown came to at her waist. 

James lingered over that photograph, unable to place the face, Q knew, and he wasn't about to give James any kind of clue who she'd been. "So how did you manage to get into Q-Branch with revoked access?" Q asked when James had lingered long enough and he deemed it time to break the pensive silence. 

"I'll be re-qualifying. Mallory bid me to tell you myself; you'll be the one running the tests, apparently." 

Q huffed, shaking his head in minor disappointment. Suppressing unworthy jibes about age and usefulness, Q collapsed into the long leather couch, only managing not to spill his drink from practice. "I've been made head of the Double-Oh division. Or didn't he say?" 

James turned to him, a mingling of surprise and aloofness on his features. "I thought only someone who could qualify as a Double-Oh would be made head of the division." 

"Someone who does qualify as a Double-Oh has been made head of the division." Q answered coolly. 

James pulled into himself, hands folding once more and shoulders viciously straightened; all trace of idleness gone from his curiosity. "I think you and I ought to talk, Quartermaster." 

"Oh, we definitely ought to, Bond...but, alas, you don't have the clearance for the conversation you wish to have with me." Q smirked, as unkindly as he could. He glanced at the glass set beside a seashell from Bondi beach, indicating it with a nod, "Now drink up, Bond; I'd rather like to shower and get into my bed." 

 

~

The requalification of James Bond went shockingly smoothly. He'd surpassed his scores from before Turkey, and Q had very nearly wanted to kill him for it. 

"Bloody menace." Q snarled as he angrily ate the French macarons brought by said menace that morning in "celebration". "And did you bloody _tell him_ about my weakness for raspberry?!" 

Holly didn't bother looking up from her tablet, humming non-commitally instead. 

"Mutiny..." 

"It's not a mutiny until I actually overthrow you, darlin'." Holly drawled, smiling innocently. 

"Why are we talking about overthrowing Q?" Eve Moneypenny asked, leaning her hip against Q's desk and looking over Holly's shoulder where she was perched on the edge. 

"Because he's developed paranoid delusions." Holly chirped merrily, grinning as she wrapped an arm around Eve's waist and gave her a squeeze in welcome. 

Q rolled his eyes, shaking his head and sighing as he continued to stuff his face. "Watch you don't ruin your dinner, oh paranoid one. Bond was asking after preferences he'd not already covered, and I may have mentioned something about Chinese food and specifically Peking duck." Moneypenny dimpled prettily as she smiled at his murderous glare. 

"He's just about grovelling at this point, isn't he?" Holly mused. 

Q groaned and dropped his head to his desk. Immediately, he felt Holly start petting his head, and he was torn between batting her away and how good it felt. 

"Spare a chocolate, will you, dear?" Moneypenny asked even as she reached for the sweet, and Q just grumbled, keeping his head against his desk. "And what's this about a bet you've made with him?" 

"He has to find my flats. Then he can pick one." Q recited. 

When the silence had stretched for too long to bode well for Q’s tenuous grip on sanity, he looked up to find Eve and Holly in the throes of a silent conversation. Q groaned and dropped his head back down with a heavy thunk. 

“Do be careful, Q. Your head is far too valuable for such mistreatment.” James admonished softly, breezing into the bunker. 

"Why, Mr. Bond, what brings you down to our lair?" Holly asked with grating cheer. 

"I've been sent out." James replied smoothly, and Q could almost hear the emotional whiplash that comes with Holly's sudden frown. 

"I haven't received anything from Mallory..." Holly murmured dubiously, opening her emails to check again. 

"I was told it's heightened clearance." 

Q grumbled, but pulled open his own email. Holly and Moneypenny were both pouting slightly at him; the fact that he embedded a film in his specs and in the glass of his computer screen that made the screen only readable to him a point of contention to the theory of his rampant paranoia. 

"Wow, okay." Q sat up, blinking at the information as if doubting it wouldn't disappear. James's brows rose, but he made no comment as Q stood and turned to the cage door behind his desk, unlocking it and flinging himself into his personal workstation hurriedly. "I've finished the coding to your guns, thank god. _Do not_ let anyone you want to keep around try to fire them, Bond. Anyone who isn't you who fires them is going to receive an electric shock similar to sticking one's tongue in a light socket and having someone staple it there." 

James came to linger at the cage door, wisely not stepping through as his eyes raked over the collection of weapons and bits of tech scattered over Q's worktables. "And what if my palmprint is...altered?" 

Q scoffed, "It no longer uses just your palmprint, Bond. It uses your DNA combined with a pulse sensor." 

"So I'll be pricking myself every time I handle my gun?"

"Oh yes, encouraging blood loss in agents _is_ my overall goal." Q snarked, rolling his eyes as dramatically as he could manage without knocking anything loose. 

"You use skin cells." James surmised, sounding almost amused. 

"Of course we bloody do." Q struggled for a moment with the tailored body armour he'd made for Bond, sighing to himself at the instinctual thought that it would rip when his hands gripped the thin, soft fabric. "Do try to remember to wear this." 

"Insurance to make sure I bring it back?" 

"Ha! As if that would work. No. It collects data for me about how you move so that I can build you better armour." 

James's brows rose, but he didn't comment as he took the shirt more gingerly than it needed, only to have Q produce a pocket knife he'd gotten as a present from Holly, dragging the blade along the length of the garment as hard as he could as James held it steady. When there wasn’t so much as a catch of the fabric, Q raised his hand and the blade and rubbed his thumb over it, blood welling in the tiny slice it made. Brow crumpling, James practically tossed the shirt at Q's desk, stepping closer and pulling Q's sliced hand towards himself. "That display was quite enough, Q, you didn't need to hurt yourself." 

Holly snorted behind them, producing an Iron Man plaster which James took with a deepening frown. Holly's hand disappeared, to return with a tissue from the box in Q's desk, which James wrapped around his finger and put pressure on as gently as he could. 

"I'm fine, Bond. I'll take the plaster and be right as rain." Q reached for it, only for James to shoot him a look that had him do something of a double-take. "Oh, don't be so bloody precious, I've had worse papercuts in the aftermath of the fucking mess you left behind after SPECTRE." 

James relinquished his hand then, and there's something Q decided he wouldn't care to read in his eyes. Peeling away the tissue, Q administered the plaster easily, if only to prove that he was adept at doing it one-handed and James could stuff his concern. 

"Now, I don't have another watch for you at present, so I recommend that if you get yourself into a tight corner, you find a way to get yourself out of it again." Q tried to return to his snark, but it fell flat against the look Q was beginning to suspect was _regret_ in James's eyes. “And, just to appeal to your contrary nature: don’t you dare bring your equipment back, you butt-faced miscreant.” 

Eve let out a startled, sputtering bark of laughter, and James's eyes grew bright again with his amusement, his head shaking slowly. "And you call me a menace, Q." 

"I am not a menace. Being a menace entails breaking things and being generally infuriating. I'm not infuriating to enough of a population to warrant a menacing status, and what's more: I tend to fix the things _you_ break." James rolled his eyes at that, but a playful smirk was tugging at his lips, and although Q would be tempted to make him regret rolling his eyes, he felt oddly comforted by the reappearance of the teasing. 

"So the entire Double-Oh division doesn't count as a large enough segment of the population to be infuriating towards, hm?" 

"On the contrary, Bond. You may find me infuriating, but your colleagues don't appear to have come to the same conclusion." 

"You're not infuriating." James contradicted immediately, "A little vexatious, perhaps, but not infuriating." 

Q's brows flew upwards, the look of doubt written clear on his face, "I'm going to regret ever asking, but how the hell have _I_ managed to vex _you_?"

"You patently don't eat or sleep nearly enough, darlin'." Holly replied blithely. 

James tilted his head, features a clear _See?_ that Q simply didn't need to deal with. "You, get out of my department, you're equipped; you, hush; Moneypants, was there something you needed?" Q herded James out of the three feet he'd stepped into the workstation, pulling the door closed behind them. 

"So cold, Q. I'm beginning to think you're not concerned any longer that I won't come back." James hummed, taking up the armour once the gun was secured in his shoulder holster. 

"You're worse than a bad penny, 007." Moneypenny replied before Q could, and they shared a smile. 

James kept his gaze on Q, the small smile curling his lips belying the attempt of affront he'd tried to slip into. "I wouldn't expect the woman famous for killing me to be concerned with my welfare, but Q's indifference..." James trailed off, and Q shot him a rude hand-gesture. 

"What, do you expect me to pine?” 

“Pine for a menace? Whyever would you?” James replied, voice slipping low and deep, the weight of his gaze suddenly a real thing on Q’s lips. 

“Oh, good, so there is sense of some form somewhere in there.” Q replied acerbically, “Because, no, I have no intention on pining about the single biggest drain on Q-Branch resources that there has ever been.” 

James’s brows shot up as if he were surprised by that status, and Q briefly considered ways in which he could incapacitate the oaf and force him to bear witness to the sheer volume of paperwork he created. 

“Have a good flight, Mr. Bond.” Holly dismissed with honey in her voice once the man, a few moments later, still hadn’t made himself scarce. 

“Thank you, R." James replied somewhat robotically, and promptly disappeared--thankfully taking his kit with him. 

Q heaved a sigh that sounded as though it was coming from the vicinity of his toes. "Y'know, I can see where that man's in demand to be ogled, but you'd think he'd be a bit...smoother." Holly noted to Moneypenny, and Eve laughed. 

"I thought Double-Ohs were supposed to be clever." Q griped. 

"Oh, he is clever, darling." Eve replied lightly, and she and Holly were smiling rather suspiciously. 

"Well he doesn't bloody seem like it." 

"Perhaps," Holly suggested leadingly, "he knows his usual seductions prefer him not to be so smart." 

Q's head snapped up to stare incredulously at her, "Who the ever-loving fuck would he be trying to seduce?!"

~

The alert came at three in the morning on the one night since Bond had left that Q had dragged himself home at a decent hour to go to sleep, because of course it would. 

The security system of Q's flats is necessarily tight, but Q was very careful not to make any of them lethal: he knew all too well the reputation of certain agents for breaking into the spaces of the executives they were meant to respect. As it was, despite the hour Q was being woken at, the CCTV feed of James Bond breaking into the flat he already knew about and being promptly tarred in a Q-Branch sticking agent before being feathered by glitter that had an embedded tracking device activated by skin contact was, perhaps, worth the early hour. 

That the glitter would alert the Double-Ohs in-country that there had been a security breach and to start hunting the culprit was something Q decided, at three in the morning, to conveniently forget as he rolled over and went back to sleep smiling slightly. 

~

There was... _something_ on Q's desk. Q would call it a monstrosity, but that might have been charitable. 

The flecks of glitter are a dead giveaway, and Q had a deep hope Holly was present when James broke into Q-Branch to deliver this monstrosity so that she could have _seen_ him. Picking up a card stuck not to the gift on his desk but to his desk itself, Q smiled only slightly evilly at the scrawl of 005's entreaty that she adored her boffin and if he ever needed her to hunt 007 for sport ever again, not to hesitate to ask no matter the time. 

"Has this been checked for boobytraps?" Q asked his branch at large, which seemed to be lingering unnecessarily just to watch him bloody open it. 

"I wouldn't hurt you, Q." James's voice came from behind him, and Q turned to see that the man had managed to talk one of his techs into providing him with the specialized soap that would negate the sticking agent. Q made a mental note to release a memo to claim any pictures taken for his own personal gratification. "Though I have to say, I am a little hurt that you've set up a security system to include the other Double-Ohs, but have left me out." 

"Yes, because you would so jump at the chance to play bobby for a boffin you seem to find extraneous at the best of times." Q rolled his eyes, moving to undo the bow at the top of the gift basket, releasing an absurd number of multi-coloured cellophane sheets. Inside the basket was James's gun, earpiece, and armour; slightly singed, but otherwise in order, interspersed with tech Q didn't recognize, but had to conclude had been picked up from their enemies. "I believe I've gone into shock. R, could I trouble you for a shock blanket and a cup of mariners coffee?" 

"With or without the whiskey?" Holly asked without missing a beat, circling close to look into the gift basket, her eyes widening at the fact that James had _brought back his kit_.

"It's eight o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday. Might as well start drinking." Q replied. When Q looked back up at Bond, the man was smirking slightly. "How did you get into my flat last night, by the way?" 

"The roof. I rappelled from the roof to your balcony." 

Q's building was the tallest of its neighbours, and Q narrowed his eyes, "How did you get onto the roof?" 

"A favour with someone in possession of a helicopter." James answered as if that was the simplest thing in the world, and Q could feel a migraine starting to build behind his eyes. 

Q's mug appeared before him, filled with creamy, sweet coffee, and disappointingly no whiskey. 

"I thought you only drank tea." James hummed dubiously. 

"He drinks coffee when it's going to be a long day," 005 responded, breezing in with her light, floral perfume, and immediately making a beeline to press a kiss to Q's cheek, grinning. "Did you enjoy the wrapping job, love?" 

Q smiled despite himself, "Oh, yes, it was quite colourful. I should have known you'd have a hand in it." 005's ever-changing hair colour was a blue that looked black or green in the right lights just then, and Q had to say that he loved it. 

"Mmm, 007 has no sense of style." 005 hummed her agreement, and Q was meant not to notice that she and Holly were sharing a smile. 

"Yes, he does seem to be limited to designer suits." Q chuckled, steadfastly ignoring the look James shot him. 

“And isn’t that _such_ a pity? His ass would look so lovely in jeans…” 005 purred, wrapping her arms around Q and leaning her chin on his shoulder while her storm-grey eyes appraised James like a piece of meat. 

“Was there something you needed, 005?” James asked pointedly, and Q’s hair stirred with the put-upon sigh that brought out in the other agent. 

“Well, you kept complaining last night about how you intended to confront Q about his decision not to include you on his security roster…I had to assume it was because he doesn’t want a brutish prick with a wont for more harm than good, and thought I might need to forcibly remove you from doing anything untoward.” 

Even Q could hear that it was a blatant bait, but behind Bond’s back, Holly winced at the wording. 

“I…would _never_ hurt the Quartermaster, Agatha.” James grit. 

Aggie Triel, as 005 was more widely known, gave a tiny “hm” as she pulled off of Q’s shoulder, tipping her head to one side as if considering, “And yet, _Jimmy_ , you already have.” 

“That is quite enough, the both of you.” Q snapped, feeling as if he’d been watching a car crash in slow motion. “Aggie, I do love your visits, but if you intend on baiting Bond, you’ll have to leave it for a setting that won’t see billions of pounds of damage in the resultant pissing contest. Bond, thank you for returning your tech. I can only assume you attempted to break into my flat for clues as to the remaining four. You’ve done well this mission, so I will give you one: I rather like trees, and don’t mind the occasional commute. Thank you for bringing to my attention the roof access to my balcony, I shall fix it. Dismissed.” 

Aggie sighed prettily, rolling her eyes as she flounced out of Q-Branch, but James didn’t seem as willing to leave. 

“What?” Q finally demanded, hand on hip as he turned to stare expectantly at the agent. 

Silently, James pulled a postcard from his jacket pocket, a shot of a neon-covered street in Taiwan the image. Q didn’t bother flipping it over to read it: it was always the same message, a rote “wish you were here” and signed with a “J-7”. Instead, Q dropped it into his desk, and when he looked back towards Bond, the man was finally gone. 

~

Curled up in front of a fire, the dulcet sounds of Chad Lawson’s piano accompaniment to the Lore podcast playing over the house speakers, Q smiled to himself at the knock at the front door. 

That James Bond was the one delivering his pizza was not remotely a surprise. “I do hope you grabbed the right one when you accosted the poor delivery boy.” 

Looking mildly offended that Q would doubt him, James stepped into the small house, toeing off his shoes politely when he took in that Q’s feet were bare on the wood floors. “Fresh mozzarella, garlic, and basil. You like eating garlic before budgetary meetings.” 

“Mm, yes I do.” Q agreed, “Last time was a wonderful yellow curry. I think I made Norbert actually recoil.” 

James visibly bit back his amusement. “I brought a rather wonderful Italian red to go with it—you like reds, yes?”

“I do. So I suppose I’ll allow you to stay for a slice. But I have a condition, Bond: You cannot make a comment regarding my telly choices. And if what I’ve chosen makes me cry, you have been sworn to secrecy.” 

“Well, now I am honestly frightened of whatever you've chosen.” James replied, managing even to sound it. 

Q smiled, "I have rather a soft-spot for the American programme 'Queer Eye'. It always gets me." 

James followed Q into the house, towards the kitchen. "I've never watched it." Q reached over to pat his arm absently as if trying to console a child. 

"You can be cold-hearted and judgemental while five gay guys make me tear up at their miracle-working." 

Q curled up on the end of the couch, pulling the hugely fluffy thick-knit blanket over himself, tucking himself into the pizza and the generous glass of wine. Pulling up the next episode of the new season, Q let himself get lost in the story of the episode, letting the discomfort of having Bond in his space fade away. James ate neatly, staying quiet as they watched a life get turned upside down. 

It happened slowly, James getting pulled into the episode with Q. Q found himself sinking against the arm, almost not noticing as James reached beneath the blanket, urging Q's legs straight and his feet into James's lap. Q actually groaned as his knees straightened up, then moaned as James's hands wrapped around his foot, thumb stroking firmly over the arch of Q's foot. 

"Think I could hire Mr. France to come and redesign your wardrobe?" James asked lightly. 

"Please, you're the one wearing the same bloody suit in three different colours." 

"I have at least five different colours, Q." James replied in teasing affront, one hand working up Q's ankle and to his calf with delicious pressure. 

"I don't believe you." Q scoffed, then squealed as James tickled his foot, catching the other foot before Q could kick him. 

"You'll have to come and help me pack when I find the other four, then." 

"You only have three more to find." Q scolded, "The fourth is not for you." 

James cocked an eyebrow, playfulness glinting in his damnable eyes. "I'm sorry, Q, but it's a challenge now: I can't give it up." 

~

The extinguishing foam hit Q like a tonne of cold bricks, and as much as Alec Trevelyan and he had become friends over the years, Q seriously considered use of lethal lasers to flay the man alive. 

"How...did you set... _my kettle_ on FIRE?!" Q managed to be calm for the start of his sentence, but was bellowing by the end. 

Alec looked like he was going to try to run, and Q sincerely hoped that in doing so he would take himself completely out on the smooth granite floor like a bloody cartoon character. "Q, love of my life...I'm sorry?" Alec tried. 

From behind him, Q heard Holly start to snicker, and Alec looked even more scared. 

"Get out of my Branch, 006." Q seethed. 

"Yes, sir." Alec squeaked, and fled. 

"Do you have spare clothes?" James asked, standing next to Holly but looking far less amused. 

"...No. I used my spare when you were in Syria last week." Q continued to seethe, and James made a sound of acknowledgement. 

"Leave it to me. Go shower, I'll have you taken care of by the time you're out." 

Q didn't bother to question it, squelching slightly as he took Holly's proffered hand to walk him to the showers. "I don't need an escort." 

"No, but I'm trying to make sure you don't slip and crack your head like an egg." 

"Good point." Q chirped. "How deeply worried should I be that _Bond_ is going to dress me?" 

"Oh, hun, there aren't words to articulate how fucked you are." Holly patted his foam-filled hair then winced at the texture of the foam as it started to disintegrate. "But I'll make you a cup of the good tea for when you're out." 

"You're a saint. Remind me to nominate you for canonization." Q shuffled into the locker rooms on his own, sighing heavily. 

The warm spray of the shower was somewhat heavenly, and if Q lingered a little longer than strictly necessary, no one knew how long Q actually took to shower, so no one would be the wiser. 

The towel that had been waiting for him had been replaced when he emerged to something much more luxurious, the culprit plain with the appearance of a orange-red pair of trousers, navy blue button-up, and a gold waistcoat embroidered with orange-red and navy firebirds, a pair of silk pants and thin wool socks with a pair of black oxfords. Q's mouth dropped open, the sheer cost of the clothes stalling his brain, let alone how James had managed to lay hands on the collection of them within twenty minutes. 

Q slid into the clothes, his breath catching at the quality of the garments. When Q came out of the locker rooms, Holly waiting with his steaming mug just a few feet away, James caught him, securing gold cufflinks into place, and Q's discomfort level rachetted up to eleven. 

"This is...very kind of you, Bond, but--" 

"I had hoped to take you out for dinner in this outfit...but I haven't found your home yet, so I'll have to find something else." 

"Wh-What?" Q stuttered, only to be snapped out of it as the unmistakable sound effect of a picture being taken cut through from where Holly stood. 

"You know, Mr. Bond, I didn't think this'd work, but... _damn_." Holly appraised with just the right amount of lasciviousness to have Q scowling at her, lips pursed. 

"I...Thank you, Bond. This is lovely." Q murmured, feeling his cheeks warm, much to his horror. 

"Any time, Q, though let's hope that next time it's necessary, it's not for Alec's arsonist predilections." 

Q's lips quirked, James's hand wrapped around his wrist still. “I’ll leave it to you to tell him that I won’t actually kill him.” Q murmured softly, eyes bright with a knowing mischief. 

“Then I’ll torture him for a little longer with the implication that you might, and you won’t have to lift a finger.” James’s voice was warm with something suspiciously like fondness. He released Q’s wrist with a gentle squeeze, and Q took back his arm.

“Was there something you needed?” Q asked, blinking behind his specs. 

“Just you,” James replied, smile small and teasing. “Come to lunch with me.” 

“I’m sorry, Bond, but I have 009 going into the thick of things in about twenty minutes, I don’t expect I’ll leave the building for the next two days, if then. Rain check?” 

“Of course, another time.” James replied with a graceful disappointment, but smiled. “You have a preference for Italian takeaway, correct?” 

“I’m usually an equal-opportunity heathen: Italian is simply my comfort food.” 

James nodded once, then turned to Holly, “R, a word?” 

Q, feeling slightly off-kilter, wandered towards his office, the mess cleaned up and what looked like a new kettle already in place. It was sleek, with several buttons for temperature settings on top, and what looked like a hook-up into the tap for more water set up. It was one of the ones that would keep the water boiled at a set temperature, always ready and waiting to be used. Q realized he hadn’t actually collected his tea from Holly as he examined it, and as if on the wings of the realization, she presented it to him, coming in on silent steps. 

“Did maintenance have this on-hand?” Q asked, moaning as he took a sip of the perfectly-made tea. 

“No, babe: Bond got it when he went out for your new duds.” Holly sounded somewhere between giddy and concerned, and Q straightened to look at her. “You…I think you’re bein’ courted.” 

Q’s eyebrows shot up, and the only reason he didn’t choke on his tea was due to the fact that he hadn’t took a second sip. “We both are very well-aware, Miss Gardot, that I am not his type.” 

“Beautiful, dangerous, brilliant? No, what’s to be attracted to in that package. Settin’ aside the fact that if you got angry enough with him, you could actually quite easily kill ‘im. No, not his type at all.” 

“I do not appreciate the sarcasm, Holly.” 

Holly rocked into his space, wrapping an arm low around his waist and giving him a squeeze, “Sure, you don’t.” 

~

009 was on her way back into the country, almost completely unscathed. It was Q that was on his way to Medical. 

Q had popped a fever some time around hour three of 009’s sojourn through Brazil, and by the time they had pulled her out, he had nearly collapsed at his station. He hadn’t meant to let it get out of control; he’d been popping cold and flu medications...that may have been out of date. Oddly, on the ride—because Holly, damn her, had called for a gurney rather than walking him up—he was a little surprised to find that James Bond was trailing them, skin and clothes splattered with a lovely orange colour, and Alec at his elbow. 

Ah, the alert on his phone a hour ago was likely Bond breaking into another of his flats. Orange dye…Q was feeling a little too hazy to remember which one he had put the orange dye in. 

“Thank you…for the takeaway, Bond.” Q managed to get out, but he wasn’t sure anyone but himself was capable of hearing him at this stage, throat torn raw with hacking coughs and voice thready for want of a full breath. 

Alec and James fell too far behind—or maybe his eyes were closing finally, feeling like sandpaper and grit; but either way, Q lost sight of the agents and the noises of the gurney being run through to Medical got far away. 

Perhaps it was time to sleep.

~

There was a bright smell tickling at his senses; citrus fruit being peeled to cover the antiseptic and bleach. 

“Do you typically work yourself through standing pneumonia, or is 009 a particular favourite of yours?” James’s low rumble wasn’t a knife directly into his already-aching head, and Q had the swollen feeling of rehydration via an IV drip. 

“I tend only to get sick once a year…bad timing this year.” Q husked out, peeling his eyes open painfully. The room was darkened, which helped exponentially, but his eyes still screamed at the mistreatment of the past few days. “Which of my houses did you break into?” 

“Kensington.” James replied, offering a segment of orange that Q gratefully accepted. “Lovely place. How does the dye stick to me, but not to anything else?” 

“Everything else was treated in a repellent solution.” Q croaked, and James handed him a glass of water with a straw. 

“I’m being sent to Bali.” 

Q squinted, “Unrest in the repair efforts from the volcano?” 

“Something like that,” James replied with a tiny smile. “I’ll miss your voice in my ear while I’m gone.” 

Q cleared his throat with a desperate hope he wouldn’t start coughing again, “I’ll be—“ 

“Precisely here. Recovering.” James said a little sternly. “R has been given orders to lock you out of the Branch for a week.” 

“A full _week_?!” Q shrilled, and was immediately hit with a coughing fit that left him feeling small and broken. 

James looked very nearly haunted as he passed a hand over Q’s fringe, brushing his hair from his lightly sweating forehead. “You have no idea how badly you scared us all, Quartermaster. We need you.” 

“I—A week?!” 

“I do wish I could be here if only to be sure you take the time away and actually recover, but in my stead I’ve left very specific instructions for Alec on the care and keeping of our beloved Quartermaster. You’ll be fully back on your feet by the time I’m back.” 

“How long will you be in Bali?” 

“Projected time is two weeks.” 

“I…I made you another watch. Still not a pen—“ 

“Fuck the pen.” James replied, smiling slightly, “Exploding watch is my new favourite.” 

James’s phone beeped, and Q took as deep a breath as he could, James’s hand wrapping around his and giving a small squeeze. “Be safe, 007.” 

“Rest well, Quartermaster.” 

Feeling unaccountably bereft, Q reached for the abandoned orange, realizing that James hadn't eaten any of the damn thing. The door opened once more, and Alec slipped in, looking nearly scared of him as he delivered a steaming mug of what smelled like a floral tea. 

“No caffeine. Sorry, Q.” 

“That’s alright, 006. Thank you for bringing me a cuppa.” 

“Of course. Any time.” 

~

Q half-expected it, though he couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed. Disengaging the security measures as James got closer to the rowhouse, Q slipped on his preferred slippers and padded to the door, opening it before the agent got into arm’s reach. 

James’s left eye was swollen almost shut, stitches black on his temple. He moved carefully, limping only slightly when Q was of the opinion the idiot should not have been walking at all. It was the first time Q had seen the man since he’d left Q’s hospital room, and there was no excuse for it, but Q pulled James into his arms, holding him as if he were made of glass but as if he’d put up a fight for anyone trying to make him let go. James sighed into his shoulder, his right arm wrapping around Q while his left hung, a nearly dead weight in his sleeve. 

“Welcome back, agent,” Q murmured softly.

They moved into Q’s apartment then, without really disengaging, and though Q felt a little as if he was taking advantage of the agent’s sorry state to hug him, he couldn’t bring himself to stop; not when James moved into his touch like that. 

On the hob, a hearty vegetable soup was simmering, and there were two bowls waiting; two plates already set with supplies for grilled cheese, ready to be put in the pan. “Have a seat, dinner will be in just a moment.” 

“It smells wonderful.” James finally spoke, his voice rough from the abuse of nearly being garrotted. 

“I take it that because you’re here, Medical hasn’t seen you to give you pain medications or antibiotics.” 

James was smiling just slightly, and Q poured him a water and a cup of tea, not sure which would hurt less on such damage. 

“I have a paramedic’s medkit. After we eat, I’ll take a look at you and you can take the bed.” 

“I’ve no intention on taking your bed from you.” 

“Then you shouldn’t have come here.” Q put on his Quartermaster voice, and though he’d never seen it work on Bond, it was his best bet for brooking no argument. “You will not be relegated to a couch while you’re in such poor shape.” 

“Thank you.” James said at last, as Q served up. Q didn’t stutter for a moment in his movements, but he did have a warmth growing in his chest that James was allowing Q to take care of him. 

The soup was warming, as it always was, and Q thoroughly enjoyed his ham-laced grilled cheese, watching James surreptitiously as the agent made his way through the meal with some small signs of discomfort. There was a lovely bloom of a bruise on the man’s jaw, and the only reason Q didn’t suspect cracked teeth or broken bones was because he’d seen the x-rays taken in Bali. Once dinner was done, Q pushed away from the table, getting to his feet to collect the medkit. “Kit off, Bond.” 

“So eager to get me naked, Q.” 

“If you weren’t quite so beaten up, Bond, I may even have ogled you. But alas, you’ll have to comfort yourself that none of the other agents in my care force me to play doctor on them.” James’s eyes were calculating as he stood, only slightly unsteady on his feet. 

“You’re cruel, Q. I have very limited chances to give you the opportunity to ogle me.” 

Q shook his head, moving to help James with his jacket and shirt; thankful that there was no blood seeping through the material. Beneath it, James was a canvas of stitches and bruising; a knife wound to his side the only section of skin that wasn’t nearly black. Q bit back a whimper, his fingers straying a hair’s breadth from James’s skin. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” There were teeth marks on James’s left pectoral, stark even in the mass of damage. 

“It’s exactly as bad as it looks, possibly worse.” Q contradicted, hands moving to undo Bond’s belt and trousers. The bullet wound to his right thigh was crusted with blood around the stitches, and Q hissed in sympathetic pain. “It’s going to be worse on your back.” Q knew without needing to ask; James had fallen two storeys and landed on his back; only managing not to break his bones because he’d already been unconscious and lucky. James was somehow still beautiful, the perfect build of his body obvious even with the damage done. “The strongest pain medication I have at present is codeine.” 

“It’ll knock me out. Best to check over first.” James was being careful in his words, the one blue eye watching Q carefully. “I can—“ 

“You’re categorically not to be trusted with your own skin, 007.” Q snapped, the tightness in his chest put aside as he moved to carefully feel along the damaged arm. 

“There’re very few nerves left in that shoulder.” James muttered. 

“And you think that excuses the abuse to one of Her Majesty’s assets in performing your own relocation of the joint?” Q sounded more like the Quartermaster now as he palpitated the area carefully, feeling for further damage. “You’re lucky I was bored in Medical.” 

“Oh? Why?” 

“I read every medical journal they’d give me. D’you know, I think Alec may have ADHD?” 

James chuckled, breathing even and unstrained, though Q knew damn well that the bastard could easily control those pain reactions. 

“I feel as though we’d be better suited to dunking you in a bathtub full of bruise balm.” 

James blinked innocently, “Has Q-Branch made one that works, then? I’ve always found those salves rather useless.” 

“Why on Earth would I get Q-Branch to create something already perfected by Miss Gardot’s dear aunt in New Orleans.” 

Q caught up the tub, twisting it open and dabbing his fingertips into the fragrant green salve. His touch on James’s skin was as gentle as he could possibly make it. “How are you feeling?” 

“Tired, but not quite so terrible. I almost lost an agent,” Q replied quietly, “bastard didn’t want me in his ear.” 

“Mmm,” James rumbled, “are you sure he simply didn’t want you to listen to him die?” 

When James had pulled his ear piece just before enemy operatives had surrounded his location, Q had snapped his keyboard in half in rage. Q had allowed himself that, because James would never know; no one but Moneypenny would. “Seems a little too considerate for his modus operandi.” Q replied as he smoothed more balm over the bite mark, thankful that beneath his fingers the skin was intact. “Who bit you like that?” He hadn’t meant to ask the question, but he couldn’t help it. 

“The wife,” James’s voice darkened, his every muscle tensing beneath Q’s gentle hand, “she liked inflicting pain.” 

James had seduced both the burgeoning warlord and his wife before Q had been let out of Medical, but Q knew from the surveillance that James had not had those marks before he’d been taken captive and tortured. Bile rose in the back of Q’s throat, and he suddenly wished he’d never been so invasive as to simply expect James to allow him to touch him. “I’m sorry.” Q finally managed, choked. 

“You dropped the smart bomb that killed them.” James replied levelly, and his hand cupped around the back of Q’s laying Q’s palm once more on his skin. “You’re exhausted.” James noted, his hand moving from Q’s wrist to brush back a curl caught on the frame of his glasses. “I can finish this.” 

Q tried very hard to slide his mask back into place, “I already told you, Bond. I can’t trust you with your skin.” 

James let Q spread the balm over his bruises, the antibacterial over his wounds before Q fit neat squares of gauze into place. When Q was finished, he brought James with him into the bedroom, sitting the man down on his bed. 

“Will you be cold just sleeping in your pants?” Q asked softly. 

“Likely not, but—but I may not…react well, with an unfamiliar environment.” James told him uncomfortably. “If you have a weapon here, you may want to go to sleep with it under your pillow.” 

Q hummed, laying a cool hand against James’s intact cheek. “You’re in the most defensible room in the house,” Q told him clearly, “there’s a panic room built behind the closet, and if you lock the door behind me, any attempt made to open it without my keys will be met with severe electrical burns. There’s a Walther under the bedside table, and a set of throwing knives in the bookshelf built into the headboard. And I have my laptop with me, just in the next room. You are safe. I will keep you safe.” 

James’s good hand came up to curl around Q’s wrist again, his cheek leaning into Q’s touch. “Thank you.” 

If James Bond sounded choked as he whispered those words, Q could not be made to blame him. 

~

The chest pains began just before Q forced the meeting with Mallory and Accounting to be drawn to a close. Bethany Carlson was presenting a detailed financial breakdown of why it would be more cost-effective to train new agents instead of equipping the ones they had with the tools necessary to their survival, and Q was so deeply incensed that he didn’t care to hide it as he hacked into her computer from his phone and sent an “error” through the system that would leave nothing but the blue-screen of death, and Solitaire on every system any of Accounting would try to sign into. 

Casting a pointedly dark look at Mallory as he pushed back from the table and stood instead of offering technical assistance, Q wished the doors were capable of slamming behind him. 

The pain was getting worse, but it was by no means unfamiliar. His rage could trigger an attack, particularly when he thought there was even a chance of MI6 burning one of _his_ operatives. Holly had dubbed it the Mama-Bear effect, and Q had let it stand. 

Holly and Bond were standing in Q’s office when he swept into it, struggling to breathe. Holly likely knew he’d be having an attack, but Bond’s presence was regrettable as Q dropped himself into his chair and doubled so that his head was between his knees. Silently, Holly and Bond swept into motion. Unlike James, Holly had specially trained to handle attacks, but it wasn’t Holly’s light perfume that filled his next desperate breath. James was the one kneeling by his chair, speaking in a low, melodic voice. 

“Phuket is lovely,” James was murmuring, voice a steady lull, “a challenge to get to with your aversion to flying, I realize, but it’s quite lovely, particularly if you know where to go.” 

Q had equipped Bond and handled almost every one of his missions personally since Skyfall; he’d read reports, such as they were, on every one of the man’s previous missions. The only time Bond had been sent to Phuket had been a month before Mexico City, to stop a human trafficking ring. The story James proceeded to tell him was patently not that. 

“Who with an ounce of sense would try to kill you via laser-bisection?” Q managed, shivering at the sudden cold as the overheat of the attack receded.

“From the crotch-up, too. That’s just bad planning.” Holly agreed, sliding a blanket around his shoulders and handing James his cup of tea to avoid spilling it with Q’s shaking hands. 

James was smiling softly, cupping one hand around Q’s for support while the other placed the cuppa in his grip, urging him to take a small, fortifying sip. “Don’t explain why or how you’re going to kill someone, just do it.” Q grumbled, and James chuckled outright. 

“You’ll have to remind me to worry about the day I piss you off enough to turn you against me.” Q giggled somewhat hysterically at the look of quiet contemplation riding James's features. 

"Why aren't you worried already?" Holly asked from the doorway, and James turned his head to shoot a look at her as she left. 

"Are you okay?" James asked softly. 

"I will be." Q replied, licking his lips and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” 

“You aren’t the one who ought to be sorry,” James scoffed, “you got so angry at the idea of Six burning its operatives that you had an anxiety attack. No, Accounting owes you an apology. I imagine, given Holly’s ire while we were watching the presentation, that they will soon learn that it’s necessary.” Q looked over his frames at Bond, who shrugged, “We were testing the screen mirroring virus you made." James told him smoothly. 

"How much did you see?" Q asked, wondering at the potential repercussions to his job if Mallory were to find out that Holly had been testing the program on a meeting in front of a man who technically didn't have clearance to be privy to that meeting. 

"All of it." James pulled the blanket Holly had draped around him tighter around his shoulders, pushing his hair back. "I won't tell anyone. I'll leave you and Holly to wreak your merry havoc on Accounting." 

Q quirked a smile, taking another sip of tea. "Thank you." Q murmured. James smiled at him, the swelling of his injuries relaxed slightly, both blue eyes visible now, although the left was bloodshot still. When Q had left the flat that morning, James had still been asleep in his bed; the codeine keeping him under far enough that Q hadn't heard James so much as stir during the night. Q had been thankful for it, though he'd also been concerned. “How are you doing?”

“You were right about the salve. I tried to extract the recipe from R, but she refused to give it to me.” 

“She may not have it.” Q scoffed, "R’s aunt came for a visit while you were away. She's honestly more intimidating than even M was." The bright amusement shining in James's eyes was lovely and warm, and Q felt more comforted by his presence than ever advisable. 

"May I stay?" James asked softly, and there was something in his tone that told Q the agent was hiding something, but Q had no idea what. 

Nodding, Q licked his lips again and straightened as James stood. A chair had already been supplied by Q's desk; an addition Q hadn't had solely to discourage Mallory or Tanner taking up residence in his office. "I won't stand for my operatives being thrown away." Q told him softly as James allowed himself to settle somewhat gingerly into the seat. James's gaze snapped up to his, and Q felt the slow boil of rage in his chest, but the anxiety of losing power over the outcome had exhausted itself: he was ready, and he was not alone. 

"We know." James replied simply, "That much was obvious when you handed me the watch." 

"It nearly killed me...leaving you out there, without support. Keeping Denbigh in the dark was more important, but...I suppose it's the curse of someone with eyesight as bad as mine, that we don't take being blind in anything with any kind of grace." Q didn't know why he was admitting it, but the anxiety attack and Bond's presence for it had brought him back to that morning, and it was all fresh once more. 

"You saved me anyway." James replied, "When it counted, you were there in the way I needed you." James narrowed his eyes, lips quirking slightly, "You always are, it seems." 

~

There was one property left for James to find before he could make his choice on which he'd like to keep. A part of Q; the part that remembered that morning in Q-Branch and hurt over it, was whispering to him that the moment the challenge passed, James's interest would be spent. 

Over the month and a half that James had been on medical leave from the field, Q had spent most of his days in the company of the man, and a good deal of his evenings hosting him in his various flats. James would end each night with a careful smile, thanking Q in a soft voice, and disappearing back to the hotel he'd taken up residence in. 

Over the course of those quiet evenings with James, Q watched as James took careful inventory of his "personal" effects, easily picking out what was really Q's from what Q had put in for a touch of believability. The story of the black and white prints in his Thames apartment was left to lie, but Q held no illusions that James hadn't also taken in the pieces put in Q's other flats: A piece of Kintsugi in the form of a dinner plate in a shadow box on the wall of the Kensington flat; a chime of shattered glass that when pieced together would form a bird in his country house; and a dried wedding bouquet framed in charred wood in the rowhouse. Q had a feeling James had pieced everything together already, but the last pieces would undoubtedly cement the story to James. 

More than anything, Q wanted to keep him; and more than anything, he knew it was a mistake to ever have let himself fall this far. 

If James had stayed away, maybe Q would have had a chance at getting over him. As it was, Q found the anger he'd had; that he'd needed to cling to, completely melting from him the more time he spent with James. What was worse was that the more he tried to distance himself, the more James chased him. 

For all that Q wanted to let himself be caught, it was undeniable that to do so would mean heartbreak. James did not do love, could not offer the fidelity that Q had grown to realize came as a given for James’s definition of love. James was all-or-nothing when it came to his heart; and Q could no more face the idea of letting James have him and leave him than he could consider the thought of having James for himself. 

Q would love him, and would make damned sure that in loving James Bond, he would never allow himself to have the man. 

~

There was a weapon in his bed when Q made it home from thirty-eight hours running 001's op. 

James Bond looked up from the book in his hands; reading glasses on his nose that the man only ever used when he'd already been straining his eyes for too long, and grey t-shirt soft-looking where he sat on the side of the bed Q tended not to sleep on, stubble stark on his jaw and blue eyes bright. 

Silently, James slid from beneath his duvet, and Q couldn't find the gumption to look away as the blond predator prowled towards him. "You've found the last of my houses, Bond--" 

Q was cut off by James's thumb, the barest hint of a touch against his lower lip, before James's fingers were undoing his tie, pulling the garishly-colourful silk free of his collar. "Do you trust me?" James asked, the question breathed between them as Q felt the pressure of a stroke of James's thumb over the arm of his glasses. 

The nod came without Q's consent; the truth of the matter that Q would trust James even with the man holding a gun to his head. Q's glasses were gently, carefully removed as he took his next breath, and James wasted no time before pressing into his space, reaching both hands to thread firm fingers into his hair, thumbs providing gentle pressure to his temples as the dull ache of his exhaustion battered at his mind. Q breathed in, and the air was full of James: musk and sandalwood and fig colouring the air as Q's eyes fluttered closed. Q wanted to devour the man; Q wanted to be devoured. 

"Let me," James's voice was no more than a sigh, the careful application of pressure on Q's head easing the throb in his mind. Without a thought or care to what he was agreeing to let James do, Q simply nodded, and almost whimpered as James's hands disappeared from his head, to move to his cardigan. The buttons were carefully undone, the leaf-green knit treated with the deference that Q wished his equipment would receive as James peeled it from him, then began work on his shirt. "You work too hard, Quartermaster." 

Q's eyes slit open only a fraction, the furthest Q could force them to go at this point. "I work precisely as hard as you need me to." 

The shirt was pushed from him with slightly less care, but no less gentleness, and James reeled him in then, his arms strong and sure as they folded around Q's smaller frame and held on. "You're a bloody miracle." James's voice had gone soft, husky, and if Q were more awake, he'd have been aroused at the sound of it. 

James stripped him of his belt when the warmth and inherent safety of the assassin's arms almost brought him to the point of slipping away; and when Q found himself laid in his bed between one moment and the next, he knew to be thankful that James was strong enough to handle him. James had dressed him in a t-shirt that was not his own, and when James slid into bed next to him, Q didn't try to stop himself from moving into James's waiting arms, head laid against his chest as the deliberate sound of James's breathing chased away the gunfire and screaming of 001's excursion to Uruguay. 

A hand settled on the back of Q's neck, tender pressure exerted on the tension there, and Q was slipping away from the world before he could realize he needed to be concerned. 

~

Q had woken alone: 007 called into Six to be sent to Kyrgyzstan. Left on the bedside table, wrapped in a ribbon tied in a carrick bend, was a small bouquet of white heather. 

Eve had texted him to relay the order not to come in, leaving Q free to take his time with the cup of tea James had prepared and left waiting for water, and make himself a proper breakfast. Turning on one of his favourite playlists, Q set his kettle to boil, letting himself settle into the afternoon. 

Returning to his bedroom, Q consciously refused the desire to climb back into his bed, moving instead to catch up the book James had been reading when he'd been home...only for his fingers to brush over the frame of James's reading specs. There were signs of James all over the flat--as if the man had been living in the last of his properties for months, longer than the challenge of finding the damn things had been in place. 

_You made your choice, then?_ Q texted, not expecting an answer with James en-route to Kyrgyzstan. 

**Not quite.** Came the immediate reply, and Q frowned at his phone. 

_How did you get in without tripping the security system?_ The flat was just as heavily protected as all of Q's properties were, so it wasn't likely that James had tripped all the others accidentally when he'd managed to disable this one. 

**Busy.**

Huffing, Q put down his phone very deliberately, moving to sit in the nest he'd built for himself in front of the bay window, overlooking the quiet little township all-but taken over by the cancerous growth of the city. The microcosm appealed to Q when he needed to remember the people they were working so hard to protect. 

Q answered his phone on the second ring, expecting catastrophe. 

_"Hello, darling."_ James's voice was low and amused to the point of fondness. 

"'Darling', Bond? Really? We may have shared a bed last night, but your darling that does not make me." Q couldn't help but put himself onto the offensive, the wish that he were really the agent's darling being slowly crushed to death under the weight of his logic. 

_"Of course not. You're beloved to me for far more than your good manners in bed."_

"I was tired enough not to steal the duvet, then. I suppose that's good." 

There was a small bark of laughter, and Q found himself smiling slightly. _"You were very polite. Though you do...well, I don't want to say that you purr, but there's no word better for it. It was actually quite soothing."_

"Bloody hell..." Q groaned, covering his face with a hand, "What do you want for your silence?" 

_"Come on a date with me. My treat."_

"What?" 

_"Come on a date with me, Q."_ James requested calmly. 

"Why on earth would you want..." Q cut himself off, "We can't, Bond. I am your superior--" 

_"There are no regulations against it."_

"Like that would stop you anyway." Q growled, and if he wasn't mistaken, the building headache was plain in his voice. 

_"It would, for you."_ James sounded terrifyingly sincere. 

"What? Why?"

James's silence stretched for long enough for Q to know it was purposeful, _"Come out on a date with me, Q."_

"I thought you were hanging dinner on the day you find my home. Find me when you get back...and you can take me to dinner." Heart in his throat, Q kicked himself for the allowance, and swore to himself that he wouldn't allow his foreseen folly to come to pass. 

_"Deal, darling."_

~

The air of his real home smelled of citrus and sage and occasionally super-heated metal or paint. He had an honest lab taking up the first floor of the building, and though he'd wanted to bring the DB5 home to work on it privately, having it moved would have revealed where he lived, and that wouldn't have done. 

Home was warm, and safe, and comfortable. Q's books lined the walls; his most treasured trinkets interspersed on the already over-stuffed shelves. His home system recognized him the moment he arrived, and began music based on his stress levels. He hadn't been home since the night they'd received word that Bond had blown up Mexico city...and yet there was a package waiting on his kitchen table; one that his cleaning staff would never have dared to bring into the building. 

"You purposefully tripped the alarms everywhere else, didn't you?" Q sighed, resting his hands on the unmarked cardboard box. 

"Open your gift." James urged softly, leaning against the arching separation line between the dining area and the sitting room. 

Q threw a look over his shoulder, sighing to himself as his hands moved across the tape, finding the place to start pulling. 

On top of the pile sat the postcard from Taiwan that Q had dropped into his desk--his desk which locked. "You never read them, did you?"

"They all said 'wish you were here'." Q scoffed, feeling more and more like a cornered animal as James came closer. As it was, James was not acting the predator; it was simply the knowledge that, really, Q would count as prey to the man that had Q uncomfortable and nervous. 

"Not quite." James replied, taking one of Q's hands in his, and directing a sensitive finger tip over the words written into the paper. It took only a moment for Q's brain to kick over to what it was he was feeling: somehow, James had created a message in Morse in the indentation of the letters. "I can't tell you what the others said--honestly, I've written more confessions to you than a priest gets during Lent. They weren't always about how deeply I've been drawn in, either; to be honest, the first few were...grudging at best. But when I realized why I was even going to such lengths, I found I couldn't bother with snark. At least, not on these." 

The message read 'I love coming back to you'. Q pulled his hand away only to reach for the next postcard in the box, one James had never actually bothered to give him. Syria's card showed the Bosra Amphitheater, and in the hidden message, James had told him that he'd made life fun again. Indonesia was next, though it wasn't Bali-specific, and Q bit back the tremble in his hands at the memory of the night James had come back to him, battered and violated and still able to allow Q to touch him, to be at ease with it. The card carried the admission 'I'd rather I'd never left'. Cards from Egypt, Kyrgyzstan, New Zealand, Iceland, each with an admission of what was tantamount to love. 

James's hand laid against Q's back, close enough to him that Q could smell his cologne, the sandalwood and fig intensely--inadvisably--comforting. "Go on a date with me, darling." 

Q kept his head ducked, the ache of wanting to press into the warmth of the man. "This is a bad idea, James. I want you...but if I let myself have you, it'd ruin us." 

"How?" James asked levelly, his hand deliciously warm through Q's jacket and sweater. "Tell me what you're thinking of, please, Q." 

"I want to keep you, and you're not one to be kept."

"Darling, you've been keeping me for _years_." James breathed, reaching to tip Q's head back lightly, choreographing the movements before his lips met Q's in a soft, leading kiss. Q practically mewled into James's mouth, his arm banding around James's shoulders. "Why did you think I came back?" 

James's hands framed Q's face, pushing his curls away from his face with gentle touches as he pressed tiny kisses to his forehead, his cheeks. "Kiss me again?" 

James's smile was a barely-realized dream before his lips had captured Q's, his tongue flicking against Q's once and sending aftershocks of desire through him that were possibly worse than the actual earthquake. Q knew that James would be a mind-blowingly good kisser, but he hadn’t expected James to somehow know that brushing his thumbnail down the line of Q’s spine would send Q shuddering into him, or that Q would respond better to a gentle hand cupping around his throat to keep him in the kiss better than the application of greedy hands in his hair. James kissed him as if they’d been kissing forever, familiar in a way that made it soft and chaste. 

Q had assumed that James would devour, insatiable and truly the predator he was--but as James's hand spread open over his back, a gentle support, a soft presence, Q felt like the reality of being ravished by James Bond was possible more ravaging than he'd ever been able to predict. 

Tiny kisses propagated between them as they gasped for breath that the kiss wasn't long enough for them to have lost in that way. James ran his tongue over Q's lower lip, his thumb stroking across Q's jaw before he pulled himself away, blue eyes raking over his features. "Come to dinner with me," James beckoned on a breath. 

Q giggled, "I was about to ask you to come to bed with me."

"See, love? You're very vexing, because I'm going to have to insist that for what I'd like to do to you, you'll need your strength." James brushed a kiss over Q's brow, "How long has it been since you slept?" 

Q's nose wrinkled, and James laughed softly, kissing the corner of his mouth now. 

"I can't seem to stop kissing you. Go shower, I'll lay out some clothes for you." James cupped Q's cheeks between his palms before he pressed a final brush of lips to his. 

Trying very hard not to grumble as he turned to drag himself into the bathroom, Q shucked his clothes with absolutely no regard to the fact that James would be able to see him still, and hoped, a little pettily, that James took a good look at what he was apparently denying himself. 

The concerns had not been assuaged, not fully. As Q breathed measured breaths, he knew damn well that there would be an uptick in his anxiety like there had never been before, simply because he wanted James more than he'd ever wanted any of his previous lovers put together. It was such a bad idea that Q could almost hear M berating him for it from the grave. 

When Q emerged from his shower, a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that wasn't his was laid out on the bed, and Q nearly stopped dead, confused, before the scent permeating the flat fully computed. 

Practically throwing the clothes on and nearly stumbling out of the bedroom door, Q's mouth fell open as he came to see James bloody Bond carefully pouring out two bowls of braised beef noodle soup, his dining table set with candles he didn't know he owned, and two steaming cups of tea already set in place. 

"I had a hankering for good Chinese food. R mentioned this restaurant was a favourite." 

"It is," Q confirmed, warmth growing in his chest as he took in the fact that James had changed from the suit he'd been wearing to report in at Six into the t-shirt and sweats he'd worn the night before he'd left for Kyrgyzstan, "you didn't have to go to all this trouble." 

James looked up at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes, "You're worth much more trouble than this. And I happen to like trouble, so I think we might be well-met." 

Q sauntered into the kitchen, wrapping an arm around James's waist and tucking himself into the man when James curved his arm around Q's shoulders, touch as warm and steadfast as home. "I think I've made your decision for you, Bond." James quirked a smile, willing to play, "Your home is with me, in any of the houses we happen to be in."

**Author's Note:**

> ...Sorry. This is why I haven't been working as much on Somebody Said. I am a very bad human being. 
> 
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> Update: I'm going to leave it to you guys, a choose your next adventure book if you will. 
> 
> Either I will give you this story from James's perspective; or I will give you another five-plus-one-ish. You decide, my freaky darlings.


End file.
